when i was younger, i
had a deathly fear of bugs, and unfortunately sharp eyes. i
would see a bug sitting on the wall, and i would stop
absolutely everyone and everything to point it out, and then,
you know, squish it. but as i got older, i realized that these
bugs, little moths, little white house spiders; they're
just lonely insignificant creatures, trapped on the wrong side
of the screen door. and they beat their little heads against
the window panes trying to escape, but just can't
comprehend how small and fleeting they are, how weak. i wonder,
if maybe, they do know, and they don't care. life for these
little bugs is short, sand in an hourglass running, running,
running; they're powerless, chewing holes through old coats
in the backs of closets to pass the time. create, learn,
retain, recreate, die—over, and over again. if everyone
lived the way they do, everything would move so slowly. time
wouldn't go so fast. maybe, that's why they do it.
i pass a moth on the wall in my hallway today.
i let it sit.